


no matter the price (she wears it well)

by shineyma



Series: and carry me away [8]
Category: Agents of S.H.I.E.L.D. (TV)
Genre: Additional Warnings In Author's Note, Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Alternate Universe of an Alternate Universe, F/M, Season/Series 03
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-03-17
Updated: 2021-03-17
Packaged: 2021-03-25 16:28:10
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,341
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/30091905
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/shineyma/pseuds/shineyma
Summary: Jemma makes a friend.One month into her arrangement with Grant, a member of his Alpha team drops into the seat across from her in the base cafeteria and says, “Hi, I’m Candice. Let’s be friends.”[One more AU ofcurrent drag me down. You can't stop me.]
Relationships: Jemma Simmons & Original Female Character(s), Jemma Simmons/Grant Ward
Series: and carry me away [8]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/954021
Comments: 10
Kudos: 60





	no matter the price (she wears it well)

**Author's Note:**

> Is this...a fic? It is!!!! Y'all, I think last year broke my muse. The struggle has been Real.
> 
> A number of warnings for this one: **sexual harassment** , as is common for the current!verse; bits of smuttiness (I didn't mean for it to be!); and references to animal experimentation/animal death. Just lab rats, but I figured I'd warn for it anyway.
> 
> I think that's everything? I hope y'all enjoy! Thanks for reading and, as always, please be gentle if you review!

Jemma’s first four days at Ward’s Hydra are split between a cell and an interrogation room.

He wants information about SHIELD, about Coulson—about Bobbi and Hunter. They spend hours every day in that small, square room, Ward walking circles around her while he hammers her with questions and threats and, somehow more intimidating, casual conversation.

Her hands are bound to the table in front of her; sometimes he perches on the edge of it to play with her fingers, making idle comments about what he did to Bobbi and whether she’ll hold up nearly as well.

It’s terrifying. The memory of Bobbi’s mutilated nails is fresh and clear in Jemma’s memory, and she cringes every time he brings them up.

But she doesn’t speak, and the threats stay only that—threats. He touches her only casually, idly, never violently. For three days, he threatens and frightens her with a vivid list of ways he can get what’s in her head, but she never receives so much as a scratch.

On the fourth day, they have sex.

Looking back, she’ll never be able to trace quite how they get there—what steps took Ward’s hand from wrapped around the back of the chair to tangled in her hair, how his threats became dirty promises—and in the moment, she doesn’t care at all. All that matters is the feeling, the _fulfillment_ of three years’ worth of hopeless fantasies.

The first time is hard and rough. She’s still bound to the table when he bends her over it and both of them are still mostly dressed. He murmurs filthy things into her ear as he pounds into her: how he’s wanted this—wanted _her_ —how he was so conflicted during their time on the Bus, how he knew she was desperate for him and was so tempted to give her what she wanted, to make her his.

He says (as she begs for more, harder, _more_ ) that if she’d been a better liar, he would’ve done it. He would’ve had her sneaking around with him, fucking her in the cargo hold between missions even as he had the rest of the team convinced he was an upright, moral agent of SHIELD—and she would’ve let him, wouldn’t she? She’d have kept his secrets and warmed his bed and been so pleased by every second of it, because she’s been wrapped around his finger since day one—and still is. She’s still his, even after everyone he’s hurt and everything he’s done—

It should shame her. Later, it will. In the moment, it only thrills her, how he’s been tempted by her, how he’s _thought_ of her. Pathetically, she cares only that she wasn’t truly as invisible to him as she’s thought.

When she comes, she sobs out his first name— _“Grant”_ —and he laughs.

“Oh,” he says, breathless, rhythm never faltering even as his hand twists more tightly in her hair, “we’re gonna have fun, aren’t we, Jem?”

The nickname affects her just as much as his other hand, slipping beneath her shirt to pinch at her nipple. She’s breathless, oversensitive and overcome, and can only collect her thoughts enough to beg, “Please, please—”

“ _So_ much fun,” he says, more to himself than to her, and then he makes her come again.

Her first two orgasms are far from her last. At some point he releases her hands; at another, they move from the interrogation room to what can only be his quarters. They need time to rest and recover between rounds, of course—they’re neither of them superhuman—but all told, she spends the better part of seven hours with him inside of her. It’s the best sex of her life (whether due to her feelings or his talent, she couldn’t say), and she never wants it to end.

But of course it must. Hours after that first round in the interrogation room, sated and sore in Grant’s bed, he winds a lock of hair around his finger and suggests she’s earned her freedom—that he’ll let her go.

Instead, she asks to stay.

“Stay?” he echoes dubiously. “You’re not gonna try and tell me those orgasms showed you the glory of Hydra, are you?”

“Didn’t they?” she asks, running one coy finger down his abdomen.

As she’d hoped for, Grant laughs—but he doesn’t look any less skeptical.

“Listen,” she says, pushing herself up to sit, “you said it yourself—you need what’s in my head.”

He props himself up on an elbow. “And now you’re in the mood to share?”

“Not about the team,” she says at once. “I won’t betray them—” any more than she already has, that is—“but I’ve so much more to offer than—than access codes that have likely been changed by now.”

Grant regards her steadily.

“You know my intellect,” she presses. “You _know_ what I’m capable of. If you want even half a chance of keeping up with SHIELD, you need me in your labs.”

“Maybe I do.” His eyes are dark and unreadable as they search her face. “And what do you get out of it?”

The truth—that she wants more of this, more of _him_ —sticks in her throat. She’s fallen far enough to come up with the idea, to want to see it made reality, but not, it seems, to speak it aloud. She has some measure of shame left, apparently; just not enough.

“Ah,” he says, around a chuckle. “You really are still mine, aren’t you?”

Heart pounding, she looks away. Her stomach twists with some combination of thrill and mortification—to be called his delights her, even as she knows it shouldn’t. She can’t believe she’s done this. She can’t believe she’s _asking_ this.

The bed shifts as Grant sits up properly, drawing her eyes back to him.

“And how do I know,” he says, “that this isn’t just you worming your way in to spy on Hydra? _Again_?”

Despite her affection for him, Jemma has to scoff. “You can’t think Coulson would ever agree to _this_ as a method of getting close to you.”

To her surprise, Grant’s face darkens. “I wouldn’t, no. But then, I wouldn’t have thought he’d sacrifice an agent for another’s cover, either.”

Jemma has no idea what he’s talking about, and says so. That’s how she learns, finally, just why Bobbi was kidnapped and tortured in the first place—what Bobbi did. That’s how she learns that, at the heart of it, what happened to Kara Palamas was _Jemma’s_ fault.

A woman—the woman Grant _loved_ —was brainwashed for the sake of getting Bobbi into place to protect Jemma while she was undercover. It’s a wonder he can even look at her, let alone touch her.

There’s nothing she can do to make up for what happened. She doesn’t even have the words to apologize for it.

She kisses him instead—and after how they’ve spent the day, it’s no surprise it escalates from there.

+++

Though he nominally agrees to the deal, Jemma doesn’t leave Grant’s quarters again for another two weeks.

As the days pass, the sex gets progressively rougher and more adventurous. He’s testing her limits, she thinks, trying to make her balk—still naturally suspicious of her motivations and unconvinced that her feelings for him could outweigh her feelings on Hydra.

So he pushes at her boundaries, testing her—trying to see if he can cross a line that will make her break and admit it’s all a ruse to get close and spy on him. Trying to see if the reality of the deal she’s suggested will scare her off the crazy plan.

(She almost wishes it _were_ just a ruse. Offering up her body in exchange for intel is far better than what she’s _actually_ doing—sacrificing her morals only for his attention, not even his love.)

As such, despite the agreement centering on her working in his labs, he makes no mention of showing them to her—offers no projects for her review. He touches her, fucks her, tests her boundaries, and never so much as references the idea she might do any work for him.

This, too, should shame her—a full fortnight as the proverbial kept woman, locked into Grant’s quarters and doing little besides warming his bed—but it doesn’t. Or rather, it doesn’t enough to overshadow her sheer delight. Awfully, pathetically, it mostly only thrills her. To have the full force of his attention, to be the center of his considerable focus—it’s amazing. She feels his eyes as surely as she feels his touch, and she loves every moment of it.

She’s spent years in love with him, despairing of the pointlessness even as she clung to every glance, every word he cast her way. No matter the evil he’s done, her heart has refused to be swayed. Now that she has the opportunity to finally experience his attention, if not his affection, a little thing like self-respect stands no chance of dissuading her.

At the end of the second week, he ties her to his bed (not for the first time) and spends hours toying with her. When he suggests that he won’t let her go—that he has plenty of scientists already, and perhaps would prefer to keep her right here, bound to his bed for his convenience, ready and waiting for him whenever he gets the urge—she doesn’t quail. She only twists against her bonds and begs, promising yes, she’ll do anything, she’ll _be_ anything, so long as he doesn’t stop.

That, she realizes later, must have decided him. He’s either convinced she’s genuine or (more likely) determined he might as well get what work he can out of her before her cover breaks. The next morning, he shows her first to a lab and then to her own quarters.

(Accustomed by now to her own weakness, she’s not surprised by the sinking disappointment she feels to know their little lockdown period has come to an end.)

Grant leaves her at her new quarters with a slow kiss and a smirk.

“You’re limping,” he notes smugly. “I’ve been hard on you, haven’t I?”

Jemma swallows a pathetic assurance that she loved every moment of it in favor of a less pathetic nod.

“Mm.” He tucks some of her hair behind her ear, fingers falling to linger on one of several bruises dotting her neck. “Why don’t you take a week off to recover before you get to work?”

In the lab or in his bed, he doesn’t specify—and she doesn’t suppose it truly matters. Either way, it’s all for him. Now that she’s experienced his attention, she can’t bear to give it up. She’ll do whatever it takes to stay close to him, the difference between right and wrong be damned.

It’s wretched—a shameful low for one of SHIELD’s brightest ever minds to fall. But she nods her agreement anyway, and when he calls her _Jem_ again as he tosses a casual goodbye over his shoulder, she can’t bring herself to regret it.

+++

The week off gives Jemma plenty of time to second-guess herself, but the memory of Grant’s touch—of his _focus_ —firms her resolve every time. The following Monday, she reports to her new lab at eight o’clock on the dot.

By eight-fifteen, she’s reached a very unpleasant conclusion: everyone in the labs, scientist and guard alike, is well aware of her position here—and they’re all judging her harshly for it.

_Ward’s whore_ , the head of the guards calls her, and she can’t, in honesty, refute it.

They can’t judge her any more harshly than she’s judging herself, however, and if her own morals couldn’t shame her out of this arrangement, the gossiping tongues of a bunch of Hydra agents are hardly about to manage it. These people don’t matter; she ignores them and gets on with things.

Perhaps that’s a mistake. Perhaps if she’d snapped back, put the head of the guards (Levens, is his name) in his place—perhaps if she’d shut down their spiteful whispers immediately, it wouldn’t have escalated the way it does.

There’s no way to know. As the weeks pass and the lab’s guards become bolder—as they graduate from looking at her to talking about her, openly speculating on her talents and what in particular might have earned her Grant’s regard, then going a step further to speculating whether they’ll be allowed to experience those talents themselves—all she can do is continue to ignore it.

Oh, she thinks about telling Grant, of course—of asking him to intercede. But her pathetic heart remains in control: she fears his rejection, his apathy, more than she does her guards. So she steels her spine, blocks out their talk, and never says a word.

+++

Her fellow scientists don’t speak about her the way the guards do, but they’re not particularly friendly, either. Jemma, accustomed to more than a decade of sharing lab space with Fitz and the last three years of Skye’s frequent company, finds it a decidedly lonely experience.

She can’t regret it—not when she spends so many of her evenings with Grant—but she does pass quite a bit of the day longing for her friends.

Perhaps that’s why she doesn’t question it too closely when, one month into her arrangement with Grant, a member of his Alpha team drops into the seat across from her in the base cafeteria and says, “Hi, I’m Candice. Let’s be friends.”

Jemma knows it’s probably not that simple. More than likely, Aldridge has been set to spying on her by Grant—despite his decision to allow her to work for him, she knows he’s still suspicious of her motives. Jemma should likely be equally suspicious of Aldridge’s.

But in truth, Jemma has nothing to hide. And with how she’s been missing Skye and Fitz—

“Very well,” she says, and leans over her tray. “How do you feel about 90’s pop music?”

Aldridge’s answering smile is stunning. It brings to mind the file on her Jemma reviewed only days before she left SHIELD—they’d done a full work-up on Grant’s team, of course. Aldridge, she remembers now, is quite practiced as a honey trap.

It’s easy to see why.

“Dr. Simmons,” she says, “I think this is the beginning of a beautiful friendship.”

Likely not, Jemma thinks, but there’s no harm in hoping.

+++

“Okay, I gotta ask,” Candice says one night, three weeks into what’s actually proving to be quite a good friendship, “what were you drinking when you bought that shirt?”

Reflexively, Jemma looks down. They’re having a movie night, so the room is dark, but the bright flash of flames filling the screen—Brian’s car has just spectacularly exploded—provide enough light by which to make out the, admittedly horrendous, floral pattern on her shirt.

She’s never worn it before—has been deliberately avoiding it, in fact. But her plans to do laundry the previous afternoon were derailed when Grant returned from the field, furious and in need of distraction; she woke this morning to discover this was her only clean blouse.

“I didn’t,” she says.

“They paid you to take it?” Candice guesses, and Jemma laughs.

“No, I—it was purchased for me,” she says. “As all my clothes were.”

“Why?” Candice asks, pinching a bit of Jemma’s sleeves between two fingers. “And was the shopper blind?”

“I don’t know who the shopper was,” she says, patiently tolerating Candice’s exploration (she’s moved from pinching her sleeve to tugging on it, apparently testing the fabric). “And I hardly brought my wardrobe with me when I left SHIELD, you know. Grant sent someone out to buy things for me.”

They don’t often discuss Grant—not as Candice’s boss _or_ Jemma’s…whatever he is—and Candice doesn’t press on him now. She _is_ aware of the generalities of Jemma’s presence here, that she left SHIELD to be with Grant, so she doesn’t ask any questions about that, either.

Instead, she scowls at Jemma’s shirt. “Well, it couldn’t have been Evie. She has way better taste than this.”

Jemma nods her agreement; she hasn’t spent much time near Evie, but every glimpse of her she’s caught has been of a spectacularly well-dressed woman.

“Only one thing for it,” Candice decides, sitting back. “We’re going shopping tomorrow.”

Not that the prospect doesn’t appeal (though this shirt is the worst offender, there are several pieces in her new closet she’d like to permanently retire), but Jemma hesitates. She hasn’t left the base since she arrived, and isn’t entirely certain she’s free to do so. If she asks, Grant may think she’s sneaking away to make a report to SHIELD—and she’d hate to re-arouse his suspicions just as he’s starting to relax.

“I don’t know…”

“Nope, too late, it’s decided,” Candice declares, tapping away at her phone. “I’m telling the boss not to wait up for you tomorrow.”

“Candice—”

“Awwww, he told me not to break you,” she coos, and drops her phone on the coffee table. “Isn’t that sweet?”

“ _Candice_ —”

“Shhh, this is my favorite part,” Candice says (blatantly lies), turning her attention back to the screen, and Jemma gives it up as a bad job. She _does_ want new clothes, after all, and she supposes Grant’s admonishment for Candice not to break her is close enough to approval.

Perhaps it will even be fun.

+++

It _is_ fun. Jemma hasn’t had a girly shopping trip since her days at the Academy (she and Skye never had the time, to her regret), and Candice is even better company than her fellow cadets were. They spend hours trawling local shops, clothing and otherwise. They also eat brunch at a quaint little tea room, with excellent sandwiches and better mimosas, and even stop in at a lingerie shop to buy a ‘present for Grant.’

(“You should definitely buy that.”

“Really? It’s a little… _much_ , don’t you think?”

“It’s a _lot_ much and that’s exactly why you should get it. Then tell the boss it was my idea.”

“…Why?”

“For getting you in _that_? I’ll get a raise for sure.”)

Honestly, the whole day is the most fun she’s had in _years_. Candice is cheerful and uncomplicated, shameless in a way Jemma envies, and, ultimately, just looking for a good time. Whether that good time happens via campy 80’s films, a dance floor in a club, or on the weapons range doesn’t seem to make any difference. Candice, it seems, simply finds enjoyment in everything.

Jemma’s so grateful for her she could cry—if she didn’t fear Candice’s attempt to cheer her back up would involve some form of public nuisance, that is.

+++

When they return to Jemma’s quarters that evening, exhausted and still laughing over a story Candice has just told, they find Grant waiting for them.

“I told you not to wait up,” Candice reminds him, dropping her armful of bags—all Jemma’s—next to the door.

“It’s only seven,” Grant says mildly. He’s leaning against the wall beside the kitchen, all long limbs and casual menace; as ever, Jemma wants him with a startling passion. “You girls have fun?”

“Lots,” Candice says cheerfully, and points out the bag from the lingerie shop. “I talked her into that. You’re welcome.”

“You talked me into a lot more than that,” Jemma says dryly, and rolls her eyes when Candice only beams.

“I know,” she says, cheerful as ever. “I’m such a great influence.” She drops a kiss on Jemma’s cheek, then spins on her heel. “Night, Jem! Night, boss!”

She’s already halfway out the door when Jemma calls, “I owe you dinner,” after her.

Her answering, “Tomorrow, maybe!” doesn’t come as a surprise; Jemma shakes her head and closes the door behind her, flipping the lock.

“Well?” Grant prompts.

“Well what?” she asks, turning to face him. He’s still lounging against the wall.

“She answered, you didn’t,” he says. “Did you have fun?”

He’s looking for something in her expression—guilt, perhaps? Does he, as she feared he would, think she passed intel to SHIELD during the shopping trip? Or did he think she meant to run, to give Candice the slip and flee back to the Playground?

“I did,” she says, “but I’m exhausted.” She looks at the bags she’s deposited on the couch, then the ones Candice left by the door. “Candice is a force of nature; we barely paused to breathe. I’m afraid we bought far too much.”

“Yeah?” Grant pushes off the wall to toe at the lingerie bag. “And why does Aldridge think I’m gonna thank her for this?”

Jemma considers the bag, then Grant. With the way their arrangement has unfolded, she’s had no true opportunity for any kind of seductive behavior; since she started actually working for him, he’s developed a habit of seeking her out (or calling her to him) whenever the mood strikes. She hasn’t had the chance to put on a show for him—something she’s always enjoyed.

“Well,” she says, bending to pick up the bag, “I _could_ tell you, or…”

“Or?” he asks.

“Or you could go wait in the bedroom,” she says, giving him her best under-the-lashes glance, “and in a moment, I’ll come in and show you.”

“Ah,” he says, and smiles. “It’s that kind of purchase, huh?”

“I think you’ll enjoy it,” she says.

Grant spreads his arms in a sort of ‘go ahead’ gesture. “By all means. I’ll be in the bedroom.”

Whether he actually does give Candice a raise, Jemma doesn’t dare ask. For her part, _she_ is fully satisfied by the purchase. She bakes Candice thank you cupcakes first thing the next morning.

+++

Some weeks later, it’s Candice’s turn to make—or buy, in her case—cupcakes. This time for comfort’s sake, rather than gratitude.

Jemma has hit a wall in her attempts to create a non-alien replica of the GH-325, and it’s driving her utterly spare. She _knows_ she can do it, that the right answer is there somewhere—she just can’t find it. After several very promising early trials, a series of missteps have taken her entirely in the wrong direction. On Wednesday, the sample she uses on one lab rat serves only to turn it blue; on Thursday, the unfortunate subject proceeds to _melt_.

“Like an ice sculpture?” Candice asks over their cupcakes, morbidly fascinated.

“An ice sculpture left over a fire, perhaps,” Jemma bemoans, head in her hands. “It didn’t even take five minutes.”

She feels a pang for the poor thing—test subjects though they are, she’s always been very fond of rats. She _hates_ when experiments go wrong and the subjects suffer, and this was a particularly horrific failure.

Candice seems not to agree. “Neat. Do you think you could weaponize that?”

Jemma looks up at her slowly.

“Right, not the moment,” she says shamelessly. “Sorry.” Abandoning her half-eaten cupcake, she comes around the table and drapes herself over Jemma’s back: arms wrapped tight around her front and chin digging into her shoulder. “Look, failure happens. You said it yourself: you’re trying to recreate something you _barely_ got to study. Not only that, you’re trying to recreate it without its _main ingredient_. I don’t care how much of a supergenius you are, honey, that’s gonna take time.”

She’s right, of course.

“I know,” Jemma sighs. “It’s just…”

Just that she’s not accustomed to failing in a lab full of people who look down on her. It was one thing at SHIELD, where she could trust that even despite a mishap, everyone respected her and her intellect. Here, with her guards openly disparaging her and her fellow scientists only barely verging on polite, she can’t shake the feeling they’re all _waiting_ for her to fail. That their worst impressions of her—she has a spot in Grant’s labs only because she’s warming his bed—are being confirmed with her every setback.

It’s foolish. She knows it’s foolish. She _knows_ her value, her genius—knows she’s, to be frank, smarter than the rest of the scientists in that lab combined. Beyond that, they’ve got it entirely backwards: the sex is for _her_ benefit, not Grant’s; he’s invested only in her genius, not her body. Her would-be colleagues have things entirely wrong. Their opinions shouldn’t matter.

She wishes they didn’t.

“Just?” Candice prompts.

Unwilling to embarrass herself with the truth, Jemma shakes her head. “I don’t know. This time it’s getting to me, for some reason.”

“Awwwwww.” Candice hugs her for a moment later, then gives her one last squeeze and stands. “Eat another cupcake, honey. Then have the boss buy you something shiny. That’ll cheer you up.”

That’s hardly the sort of relationship she has with Grant, but she knows Candice means to make her laugh—which she does, if only at the thought of how Grant would react to such a request. Then she changes the subject before she can be depressed any further.

+++

Friday morning brings her no closer to success. Her glum mood must be obvious despite her attempts to smile through it, because Candice walks her back to the lab after lunch rather than splitting off at the cafeteria as she usually does. Mercifully, she doesn’t try to comfort her; she merely hooks an arm through Jemma’s and tells an outrageous story of a mission in which she seduced a married couple—separately.

(“And then she says, ‘no, _I’m_ fucking the maid,’ and they both just turn to _look_ at me.”

“Oh, no,” Jemma says, beyond fascinated. “What did you do?”

“Well, there was a convenient balcony—”)

Candice leaves her at the door with a kiss on the cheek and a “See you later,” in reference to their regularly scheduled Friday movie night. Jemma, comforted despite herself, is actually smiling as she continues to her lab bench.

Of course, it doesn’t last for long.

She’s no sooner set her bag down in its place than Levens starts in. “Wow, Aldridge, huh?”

Ignoring him, she moves to check on her remaining rats—all mercifully solid, though one’s looking a touch purple. She marks down the time and the observation.

“Makes sense, I guess,” Levens goes on, as she turns to grab her phone for photo documentation of the precise shade of the rat in question. “We shoulda seen it coming.”

As Jemma refuses to engage with his obvious baiting, it falls to one of the other guards—Versum—to give him the opening he’s all but begging for.

“Oh, yeah?” Versum asks. “How’s that?”

“Well, Ward gets tired of his whore, he can’t just kick her to the curb, right? Who knows where she’d go, what kind of enemy agents she might spread her legs for next?”

The assorted guards chuckle lewdly. Jemma focuses on keeping her breathing steady as she uploads the rat’s photo to her computer. She won’t let on that she can even hear them, let alone that she’s bothered.

“So of course he’d pass her on to someone else,” Levens continues. “And hell, you know Aldridge—slutting it up on ops every chance she gets. If you’re gonna give anyone a fucktoy, she’s the best choice. Maybe she’ll start keeping her legs shut in the field.”

Jemma nearly breaks the slide she’s just picked up. How _dare_ —

But no. He’s only looking for a reaction. If Candice were here, she wouldn’t be hurt or insulted; she’d only laugh in his face. Then she’d likely pull him into a closet under pretense of offering a quickie, only to slit his throat.

The mental image is lovely, enough so to calm her down. She goes on about her work, assembling the various samples for examination, consulting her notes—

“Or maybe Ward’s not done with her yet,” Versum says. “Maybe he and Aldridge are gonna share her.”

The guards laugh. Jemma repositions her slide.

“Fuck, that’d be hot,” Levens says. “You think he’ll let her stay in the lab once that gets started? Not like she’s doing much here anyway—might as well make sucking his dick her full-time job, right?”

He’s got it wrong again. The science is the price for the sex, not the other way around. Grant knows her intellect, the value she brings to his lab. Just because she’s having some minor setbacks—

“No way, man,” Versum says. “She’s not gonna have _time_ to waste in here, not if she’s gotta keep Ward and Aldridge both satisfied. She’s got valuable work to do on her knees in Ward’s office.”

“And her back,” Dresden cracks.

“You hear her on the way in?” Bremmer puts in. “Aldridge said she’d see her later. Maybe it’s starting tonight.”

“Aww, that’d be a shame, wouldn’t it?” Levens asks. “This your last day in the lab, Simmons?”

Does the rat look less purple than it did a moment ago? Jemma pulls up the photograph for reference.

“That’s okay,” Levens says, as though she’s answered. “You know how short Aldridge’s attention span is—they’ll be done with her soon enough. Then it’ll be our turn.”

The guards’ conversation turns, then, to more typical talk—where they think her sexual talents lie, what they’ll do to her, who gets first crack at her, and so on.

Jemma breathes through it and does her best not to listen.

+++

After an afternoon full of further failure _and_ endless talk about her, Candice, and Grant, Jemma texts Candice to request a rain check on their movie night. She just needs the evening, she thinks, to put Levens and his ilk’s talk behind her. Just one evening, and then she’ll be able to look at Candice without thinking about what they said.

Unfortunately, Candice doesn’t give her the evening. Half an hour after she sends the text, there’s an impatient rapping on her door.

“Jem?” Candice calls. “What gives?”

Perhaps if she pretends she’s not here…she could be with Grant! Candice wouldn’t know.

“I know you’re in there,” Candice says, still knocking insistently. “I just saw the boss in the gym and he’s not even half done with his workout.”

Bugger.

“You know I can keep this up all night,” she goes on. “Seriously, you will get _no_ peace.” The knocking picks up in speed. “Wouldn’t you rather take two minutes to talk to me than spend all night hearing this?”

Candice is ridiculous—but then, so is Jemma. All she needs to do is open the door, tell Candice she’s not feeling well, and promise to make it up to her. There’s no need to—to _hide_ and ignore her dearest (her only) friend.

Of course, she only gets as far as opening the door before her very reasonable plan gets derailed.

“Fina—have you been crying?” Candice demands.

“No,” Jemma lies, resisting the urge to wipe at her face. “I’m sorry for putting you off. It’s only I’m not feeling very well, so—”

“You have _definitely_ been crying,” Candice says, and gently manhandles Jemma out of the doorway so she might enter. “What’s wrong? What happened?” She kicks the door shut behind her. “Did the boss do something?”

“No,” she says, “no, nothing happened, I’m fine—”

“Ha,” Candice says. “That’s a good one. Sit down, honey, tell me what’s wrong.”

Somehow, without quite following any of it, Jemma ends up tucked under a blanket on the couch, a bowl of ice cream in hand, pinned under the discerning stare of a hardened specialist.

“Eat and talk,” Candice orders. “Or talk and eat. Either way, you’re doing both before I leave.”

“It’s really nothing,” Jemma tries.

“No it’s not.” Candice leans forward. “Jemma. Tell me what’s wrong.”

Jemma has never seen her so serious. Under that concerned stare—so worried! For _her_!—she cracks.

“There’s a guard in my lab,” she says. “Or—or there are _guards_ in my lab.”

Candice shifts off the coffee table and onto the couch next to her. “Tell me.”

And Jemma does. All of it. The months of comments, insults, suggestive questions—the way their eyes follow her—how frightened she’s been, how unsettled—all of it spills out of her in an endless flood, everything she’s been holding back escaping at once.

By the end, she’s crying again. Candice holds her through it all, stroking her hair, murmuring soothing nothings, promising she’s safe.

“They will _never_ touch you,” she swears, and though she can hardly promise that, it’s comforting.

+++

Despite what Jemma would have feared if she’d known she would be telling Candice about her guards, the weekend passes normally. They do, in the end, watch a few films—Jemma’s go-to science fiction comfort films, to be precise—and, as they often do, fall asleep in front of the television.

Candice departs after breakfast Saturday morning with only one reference to the previous night’s revelations—a repeated promise that none of the guards will ever touch Jemma. She doesn’t, thankfully, say anything to Grant as she passes him on her way out.

“Rough night?” he asks, sharp eyes taking in Jemma’s state.

She presses a hand to her eyes, self-consciously aware they’re red and swollen from the repeated crying jags. “We watched _A Walk to Remember_ ,” she says, and changes the subject.

Saturday is spent with Grant, as is Sunday. He’s in a good mood—an infectious one, even though she knows she should probably be suspicious of the cause. But she loves him and his happiness buoys her, regardless of whether it truly should.

(Defiantly, she does get on her knees for him at more than one point over the weekend. She _enjoys_ this—enjoys the way his fingers tangle in her hair and his voice shakes, the power it gives her over him—and she refuses to let Levens taint it.)

Despite its beginnings, it’s a good weekend. Candice texts her regularly, strings of cheerful emojis and a few memes, and it makes her smile every time. She doesn’t know why she was so afraid to tell her the truth—there’s no harm in it at all.

+++

On Monday morning, she arrives at the lab to find Candice there waiting for her. She’s leaning over Jemma’s lab bench, studying the lab rats with narrowed eyes.

“Candice?” Jemma asks as she nears her.

“Oh, good,” Candice says, straightening, “you’re here. Good weekend?”

“Yes, thank you,” she says. “It was lovely. Did you need—Candice!”

As Jemma reaches her, Candice pulls her gun from her waistband, turns to face the guards, and shoots Levens directly between the eyes. Blood and brain matter splatter against the wall; Jemma isn’t the only one to shriek.

“Candice,” she gasps again. “You—”

“The next one dies slow,” Candice says to the rest of the guards, ignoring Jemma. “You got me? You keep your eyes, your thoughts, and sure as hell your _hands_ to yourself when it comes to Dr. Simmons. Or else. Are we clear?”

Most of the guards nod their frantic assent, but Versum’s gaze is narrowed on Jemma. He and Levens are— _were_ —close friends; he’ll be taking this out on her, no doubt.

Or perhaps not, as Candice, without warning, shoots him in the knee. Jemma cries out again.

“I said,” Candice draws out, voice sugar sweet, “ _are we clear_?”

“Clear,” Versum bites out.

Candice claps her hands together. “Great! Glad that’s settled.”

She tucks the gun away and turns back to Jemma—only for her eyes to move past her. Following her attention, Jemma finds Ben Markham just inside the door.

“Problem, Aldridge?” he asks, eyes moving casually over the corpse and the wounded guard and the huddle of (reasonably) terrified remaining guards.

“Nope,” she says, smiling brightly. “Just needed to give some of the grunts a quick lesson in respect, is all.”

“Right,” he says. “Let me know if you think it needs reinforcement.”

“Will do,” Candice promises, and slings an arm around Jemma’s shoulders. “For now, me and Jemma are taking the day off.”

Markham nods and continues on his way, utterly unconcerned about, again, the _corpse_ on the floor of the lab. (Jemma thinks, a touch hysterically, that a number of experiments have probably been contaminated. She hopes hers wasn’t one of them.)

Candice gives the remaining guards—including Versum, who’s been moved to wrap his own knee (as none of the others seem inclined to help him)—a quick ‘watching you’ gesture, then tugs Jemma towards the door.

“Come on, Jem,” she says. “We’re going shopping.”

It takes three full corridors before Jemma manages to find her voice.

“Candice,” she says, “you—”

“I told you,” Candice says, an edge of steel beneath her cheerful tone, “nobody is going to touch you. If I have to keep shooting people until they figure it out, so be it.”

Jemma doesn’t know what to say—oh, wait, of course she does. There’s only one thing she _can_ say, really; only one thing she can do.

She stops them in the middle of the corridor, takes Candice by the shoulders, and says, simply, “Thank you.”

Then she hugs her, as tightly as she can—hoping the embrace will fill in everything she’s feeling, all of the gratitude and relief and pure, simple love.

“Any time,” Candice says, and hugs her back.

+++

(Versum is dead by the end of the day—not at Candice’s hand, but Grant’s. Apparently, Markham was able to put the pieces together and guess at what motivated Candice’s sudden violence, and naturally told Grant at once. None of the other guards get the chance to demonstrate whether or not they took Candice’s lesson to heart; they’re all relocated to the dungeon, to suffer and die at Grant’s pleasure.

Jemma has Monday off because Candice insists, and they spend it together in town, shopping and laughing. She has the _rest_ of the week off because Grant feels the need to remind her that she is indeed his, and that anyone who questions it will regret doing so in short order.

All in all, it’s quite possibly the best week she’s ever had.)


End file.
